The Kidnapper
by Mysterylover17
Summary: One stormy night a young client calls on Holmes to find his abducted sister. Will the great detective be able to return the girl to her family? Read and find out! Changed and reposted! Please let me know what you think. R&R!
1. Disclaimer

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or Dr. Watson. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The other characters in this story are mine. Enjoy! 


	2. Chapter 2

"Holmes, I do wish you would reconsider," I muttered angrily one rainy evening in March as I watched my friend open his Morocco

"Holmes, I do wish you would reconsider," I muttered angrily one rainy evening in March as I watched my friend open his Morocco case and remove a vile of clear liquid, followed by his hypodermic syringe.

He glared at me and proceeded to touch the delicate skin of his sinewy forearm, which was dotted and scarred by numerous puncture marks, in search of a vein.

"Which is it today, Morphine or cocaine?"

"You should not have to ask," he said as he adjusted the delicate needle and drew into it a measure of the drug.

"Holmes why must you indulge in such reckless behavior? Surely this black fit will pass as many of the others have done."

"It won't pass _Doctor_ because it is not an ordinary black mood, but one brought about by my inability to—"

"Don't!" The word came out of my mouth with such vehemence that both of us were startled by it. "There was nothing you could have done to prevent the outcome. You proved that Sir Charles was partly responsible for withholding vital evidence—"

"If I had not been so blinded by disbelief, if I had not been so damn obtuse in understanding and following my own reasoning I would have saved her life!" Such was his anger that he threw the syringe across the room, causing it to shatter when it hit the mantle. Unable to control himself, my friend sprang to his feet and began to pace before the fireplace, raking his fingers through his hair in agitation.

"Holmes, please sit you're making yourself—"

"Four people are dead because of my inability to follow a line of reasoning so transparent that even a Scotland Yard official could have seen it!"

"But they didn't see it old boy and that's why they consulted you," I said as gently as I could. I hated to see him so full of self-loathing, especially when the higher officials of Scotland Yard had done everything in their power to thwart him from bringing Leather Apron to justice.

"I should have ignored what Sir Charles said and followed my own reasoning, not caring a damn what the government thought—"

"And then you would have ended up in Newgate prison where your life would have been sold to one of the many men you put there for a whistle and a bobby."

"Regardless, those women would still be alive."

"You were called upon at the last moment. Even you could not have prevented Stride's death or the death of Catherine Eddows."

"But Mary Kelly's—"

"Could not have been prevented because Sir Charles ensured that he had put you on the wrong scent. He was more then surprised when you realized it and rushed back to Whitechaple in vain attempt to save the poor wretch."

"And killed the court physician in the process."

"May I remind you he was attempting to murder you in addition to those women? If Lestrade and I hadn't rushed in when we did--"

"It would have been better if he had run me through! At least justice--"

"Regardless of anything Holmes, you learned and revealed Jack the Ripper's identity and saved countless others from--"

"And at what cost? The promise of our perpetual silence? The lives of five women? The knowledge that no one will ever pay for their deaths?"

"Live also with the knowledge that you saved two lives that day old boy and you single-handedly defeated corruption and villainy at the highest level of our government. You restored order and integrity to the very crown of England."

My friend looked at me for a moment and allowed the faintest flicker of a smile to pass across his pale lips. "Good old Watson, forever the sentimentalist."

Before I could say anything further, Mrs. Hudson entered our flat carrying a tray filled with cold sandwiches.

"I know you ordered me not to enter this room," Mrs. Hudson said when she saw the venomous stare my friend fixed upon her, "but the weather has made my poor bones ache so I am going to retire a bit earlier then usual and I wanted to ensure you gentlemen had something in case you got hungry." Mrs. Hudson set the tray on the table and stared at my friend. "I am glad to see you up and about Mr. Holmes. Are you in any pain?"

When my friend did not answer her, she sighed. "Although you are not so inclined to eat or communicate, I'm sure Doctor Watson is starved."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson," I said with a smile. After our meeting earlier today with the Home Secretary and the Prime Minister, nether Holmes nor myself had any inclination towards food. However, the sight of the sandwiches reminded my stomach that it had not had nutrition in several hours.

"Some food will do you good Mr. Holmes, it'll help restore some color into your cheeks."

"That will be all Mrs. Hudson," the detective said laconically.

"Good night Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson," she said taking her leave and favoring me with a sympathetic glance.

"Come old boy, you'd best eat something."

"I can't eat."

"You can and you will. Doting on what you consider to be a failure will do you no good. As far as I am concerned you succeeded in your last investigation, even though your sense of justice was not completely fulfilled. I will not have you berating yourself over this any longer."

He raised his eyebrows at my parental tone and flashed me with a sardonic smile. "You certainly made your position clear enough." Despite his words and humor, he sat across from me and allowed me to shove a sandwich onto his plate.

We sat at the table in compatible silence, the only sounds were the clinking of our cutlery against the china plates. When we had finished, my friend pushed back from the table and moved to his much charred chemical bench, intent on finishing some malodorous chemical experiment before he retired for the evening.

"One moment Holmes," I said before he had settled into his scientific mood.

"What?"

"Lift your shirt old boy, I want to take a look at your chest."

"Honestly Watson this is quite--"

"Nonsense! Take off your shirt or I will be forced to do it for you."

He grumbled something that I could not understand as he undid the buttons of his shirt. He leaned forward, preventing the material from opening prematurely and glared at me.

Slowly, I rose and strode over to him. Without waiting for an invitation, I gently eased the material from his shoulders, noting but saying nothing about his sharp intake of breath. I stared down at his chest and torso which were covered with bandages, most of which were stained with the sickly brown color of dried blood and lymph.

"If you'd oblige me and lie on the sofa, this will be much easier," I said, making sure my voice booked no room for disobedience.

With a muttered oath, my friend did as I instructed and laid prone on the settee. I left for a moment to retrieve my black medical bag from my own bedroom and then rejoined him in the sitting room. I removed my lancet and gently began cutting away the rough bandages. When I had them all removed, I stared down at the long, ugly red scar which ran from his left shoulder to his right hip and was the only mar on his otherwise flawless skin.

"Any deeper and I would have sworn he was attempting to skin you alive," I said as I set about mixing another poultice to apply to the wound. I hoped it would reduce the inflammation around the area as well as deaden some of the pain so he would be able to sleep without too much discomfort.

My friend watched my actions from beneath heavily hooded eyes, trying his hardest not to show any form of uneasiness as I went about redressing his wound. When I had finished, I gently patted his shoulder and held out his shirt for him.

"I'll want to have a look at it again in the morning."

He nodded, slowly buttoning his shirt before reseating himself at his chemical bench. After putting away my medical supplies, I sat in my overstuffed wing backed chair with my most recent copy of the _Lancet_.

"I daresay Watson, are you expecting company?"

"Certainly not," I said, glancing up from my paper. "Why do you ask?"

"I thought I heard a cab pull up to the curb," Holmes replied as he gently set aside a beaker filled with some kind of smoking blue liquid. "In this weather, it must be some crony of Mrs. Hudson's, for I cannot imagine any client venturing out in this gale to consult me."

"I don't know, I said as I listened to the storm raging outside our windows. "She said she was retiring."

"A friend is the most logical."

Considering his mood, I decided against arguing the fallacy of his statement. Clients have called on us in worse weather and much later. However, since it was a bad storm I simply nodded in agreement, not wanting to anger the fellow. "If it is a client, they must be extremely desperate for your assistance."

Before my friend could utter a reply, there was knock on our door. I rose, quite stiffly, from my wing-backed chair and opened it. Mrs. Hudson was standing in our doorway once again, this time she looked as though she had just been roused from a deep slumber. In her hands was a silver slaver, in its center a white calling card.

"I'm sorry to disturb you gentlemen again," she said, forcing a grim smile, "but there is a gentleman downstairs requesting to see you. He was most insistent."

I took the card from her and quickly scanned the name, Arthur Stevenson. "You may show him up Mrs. Hudson," I said replacing the card on the try. "And, for God's sake go back to sleep. Holmes and I will see the gentleman out."

She nodded and turned to go.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson?"

Our landlady turned and looked at me. "Yes Doctor?"

"If you are in any pain this evening, it looks as though Holmes and I will be awake for quite some time. Simply call and I will bring you something to take."

With a nod of her head and a grateful smile, Mrs. Hudson disappeared down the stairs, leaving behind her a very baffled doctor and detective.

"It must be a matter of life and death," I said, closing the door behind our long suffering landlady.

"I do hope this is worth it Watson," Holmes said, "Who knows, perhaps it may be my chance to redeem myself."

I glowered at him for that statement but he ignored my stare. Instead, with a touch so gentle it might have been directed to a wanton lover, my friend placed the steaming beaker in its hold and turned off the orange flame of his Bunsen burner.

He had just enough time to exchange his mouse colored dressing gown for a more appropriate jacket when there was the faintest of knocks at our door. "Watson," he said waving a hand in the direction of the door.

Upon opening it, I saw a tall, thin man, barely old enough to cease being called a youth, with a wild shock of red hair stood in the doorway, looking from one of us to the other, as though unsure who to address. He was dressed in much faded and torn blue pea coat and in his long, nervous white hands, he clutched a tattered blue cloth cap.

"Mr. 'Olmes sir?"

Languidly and with the simple elegance of a cat, my friend rose from his chemical bench and approached the youth. "That is my name Mr. Stevenson, but you have the advantage of me. Pray come in and warm yourself by the fire. Although you are used to poor weather on the seas, there is no need to be battered by the elements while you are stationed here in London."

"God in 'Eaven, 'ow do you know me, gov'nor?" He stared at my friend, eyes full of mistrust, and took a step backward, away from the consulting detective.

"You can rest assured I've never set eyes on you until this very moment Mr. Stevenson nor have I ever heard your name until our landlady brought up your card not five moments ago."

"'Ow do you know I'm a sailor then and only recently come back from the sea?"

"A simple matter of observation and deduction my good man. But please, do come sit before the fire, for you are dripping ravages of the storm all over my carpet."

A faint blush spread across the young sailor's cheeks, making it difficult to discern where his face ended and his hair began. "I do beg your pardon sir. It's been quite sometime since I's been in genteel company."

"That's quite all right. Watson, take the lad's coat and hang it to dry."

I was more then a bit surprised by my friend's sudden solicitous manner, considering the rather foul mood he had been in all evening, but I was glad to see the change in him and did as I was instructed. Mr. Stevenson handed me his coat, which smelled not only of salt air but also carried with it the pungent odor of dead fish along with his oilskin rucksack, which too carried the scent of the sea. These items I hung on the rack, and noted with mild amusement, that he had decided to keep his cap, which he continually twisted between his two hands.

"This is my friend and colleague Doctor Watson," Holmes said when we had all been seated. "You may speak as freely before him as you do before me."

Mr. Stevenson nodded and we exchanged cursory greetings.

"Now sir, pray tell us what brings you from China here to our humble Baker Street flat."

The youth let out an exclamation of surprise and stared at my friend as though another head had just sprouted between the consulting detective's narrow shoulders.

"It is no mystery, I assure you," Holmes said with a wave of his hand. "The fish tattoo just above your right wrist could have been done no where else, save China. In the recent past, I have made a study of tattoos and even wrote a small monograph on the subject. Both the design of the fish and the practice of staining its scales such a delicate shade of pink can only be found in China."

"Why couldn't the tattoo've been old?"

"There is still the slightest film of new skin over it, which has not completely finish growing. Had the tattoo have been even three months old, your new layer of skin would have been complete and there would not be a glare upon the artwork."

"The fact I'm a sailor then and just recently come to London?"

"I will not insult your intelligence by stating the obvious indications but will rather point out to you the ones which would only be observable to the trained eye. Both of your hands are well muscled and have, on the palms, a great deal of calluses and scars, especially across the area where the palm and the fingers intersect. Given the age of the scars and their particular shape, I reasoned that such marks could only be caused by the constant friction found between the skin of your hand and rough hemp. Who, save a sailor, would have their hands constantly burned by rope? This observation, combined by your pea coat and rucksack, both of which carry the distinct odor of the sea, makes the matter extremely commonplace."

"Cor! That's unbelievable. I thought you did somethin' clever, I did, but it's really quite simple!"

"Omne ignotum pro magnifico," my friend said sourly. "I fear I must start to be a bit less candid with my observations Watson, otherwise my reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck." He turned his attention back to the lad, who was now gazing at my friend as though he was a great wizard. "Now then Mr. Stevenson, if you'd please tell me why you've come, I might be better able to serve you."

"I'm guessin' you want the brass tacks then, aye sir?"

"Yes Mr. Stevenson," Holmes said tersely, "the facts would be most helpful."

"'Ere's me tale then, as I knows it. As you so interestin'ly said b'fore, Mr. 'Olmes, I's just finished a fishin' job in China I's did an' set me sails back towards London. It's been some time since I've been 'ome an' I thought it'd be good to take a 'oliday an' visit me people 'ere in England.

'Sos when I reached port, I found meself not on Kearney's Lane, I did. I 'eaded to me favorite bar and 'ad a pint before I got on a train 'eaded for Kent. 'Opin' I'd arrive at me 'ouse b'fore it go too late. When I 'eaded to me 'ouse me mum, she greet'd me wif open arms she did an' so did me sisters, both of whom've grown quite a bit since I saw them last. We 'ad such a meal 'as I never 'ad before an' after, we all talked late, we did. After that, I found meself sittin' in me old room not quite knowin' what t'do wif meself. Sos I decided I'd 'ead out an' get somfin' ta drink cause bein' on land made me a might bit thirsty.

'I returned 'ome early in the evenin' an' stumbled to me bed where I was dead to the world I was till I 'eard me mum's loud scream. I 'urried t'see just what was the matter an' I found 'er clutchin' this 'ere note t' 'er bosom." Before he said anything more, our visitor reached into his trouser pocket and produced a much folded sheaf of paper which he handed to Holmes for perusal.

" 'If you have any hopes o' seein' yer daug'er again,'" my friend read from the paper for my benefit, "'you will bring one thousand pounds to a location I will spec'fy by six o'clock Monday morning. Do not bring police. If you do, you might as well forget about seeing your daug'ter alive. I will be in touch.'" My friend set the paper down on his lap and studied it for a long while.

Instinctively, Mr. Steveson seemed to know not to say a word. The two of us sat in utter silence as the consulting detective read and reread the note.

"The paper," he began, speaking more to himself then to either of us, "is of a common variety and has quite a few water stains upon it, as though it was been out in the elements."

"It's been in me pocket it 'as." Stevenson offered.

My friend did not respond but continued to stare at the paper in his hands. He stood quickly and strode over to one of our gas lamps. He raised the paper to it and studied it for a few moments. "There! When held to the light I can just make out the manufacturer's initials that are woven into the paper. Capital 'A' lower case 'c' and 'd.'

'The author's hand is not very steady,' he murmured. 'Notice the stems of the 'h's' in daughter, they are not quite straight but rather veer off on a queer angle. This leads me to believe the man is either of a nervous disposition or that he has a penchant for drink.

'He also has varying levels of self-confidence. In spaces where the words flow easily, the ink is heavy and dark. In other places, where the writing is extremely light, his confidence wavered. I know it is not the ink in the pen because the color change is inconsistent throughout the letter. If the pen was running low, in addition to the words growing progressively lighter throughout the letter, there would be scratch marks where from the author attempting to force in from it. There are neither these marks nor the lessening of ink." My friend finished his examination of the letter and handed it back to our client, who, from those deductions was looking at the consulting detective as though he was some kind of demi-god. "Pray continue with your narrative," Holmes said as he resumed his seat before the fire.

The young lad cleared his throat and returned the ominous missive to his trouser pocket. "As soon as we found this, father an' I went 'round the city lookin' fer 'er. But we couldn't find 'er we couldn't. Sos we returned 'ome t' mum and me other sister Anne.

'Me dad, bein' more genteel then me paced our flat 'e did, won'drin' jus' wot we could do a 'elp 'er. I said to 'im wot about that gent in Baker Street who solves crimes I did. 'E said it was impossible. When I asked why, 'e asked me if I were daft an' said whoever took Em said spec'fly not to contact anyone. 'E wonted ta do what the let'er said. We 'ad quite the row 'bout it we did till finally I won an' 'ere I am.

'I 'ope you can 'elp me Mr. 'Olmes sir an' your abil'ty aint jus' fiction written in the Strand."

Contrary to what I expected, the consulting detective let out a bark of laughter at the youth's comment. "Mr. Stevenson, your problem is quite refreshing."

"Aye now you jus' wait one bleedin'—"

"I meant no offense I can assure you," Holmes said as gently as he could. "It is a relief to have a real problem come to me. Yes, Mr. Stevenson, I will look into the disappearance of your sister."

The youth jumped to his feet and began pumping my friend's hand with such vigor, Holmes was forced to remove his appendage from our client's grasp. "Cor thankee kindly Mr. 'Olmes. I know if anyone'll be able to bring Em back t' us it'll be you."

"Now I simply require some additional information from you Mr. Stevenson, such as where I can reach you."

Arthur Stevenson grabbed his rucksack from where I hung it and removed a decrepit looking notebook. He quickly wrote down the information and handed it to Holmes.

My friend glanced at the paper and raised his eyebrows slightly, but did not comment. "Thank you very much Mr. Stevenson and do not fret, I believe I will have your sister back to you safely before Monday."

"I can't wait to tell me mum! Thankee again Mr. 'Olmes, Doc'tor Watson."

I rose from my seat and escorted the young man down the stairs. We parted company, he all the while thanking me and Holmes profusely for our assistance. I watched him don his cap and disappear into the storm. I walked back to the sitting room chuckling to myself at his boyish enthusiasm. When I returned upstairs, I found Holmes once again seated at his chemical bench tinkering with the beakers he had not that long ago forsaken to hear a young boy's plight. Although his face was turned away from he, I could tell by his straight back that he was indeed glad to once again have mental stimulation.

"I assume we'll make a start in the morning," I said gently closing the door behind me.

He whirled around and faced me, his eyes shining brightly. "Good old Watson!" I was slightly surprised by his almost jovial mood. "Yes old boy get some rest. I fear we will be quite busy upon the morrow."

I smiled, and went up to my own room, hoping that this sailor's problem would be what the detective needed to pull him from his own mire of despair.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hey all, I've returned! I want to take a moment to thank all of my loyal readers and reviewers. I hope you will continue to like "The Kidnapper." Please R&R to let me know what you think! Enjoy!**

* * *

"Watson?"

The voice startled me and I quickly opened my eyes to find Holmes standing, fully dressed, by my bedside, a dwindling candle in his hand.

"Holmes what he devil time is—"

"I fear there is only time for coffee," he said placing the candle on my bedside table, "I've already rung for Mrs. Hudson to bring up a fresh pot. Our train leaves at exactly five thirty from Paddington Station."

I shook my head in effort to clear the ravages of sleep from my brain. "And the current time?" I asked.

He removed his pocket watch and quickly consulted it. "Quarter to five," and then with an indolent smile he added, "in the morning."

I fairly leapt from my bed and hastened to quickly complete my toilet. Ten minutes later I joined Holmes at the breakfast table where he was already helping himself to a cup of Mrs. Hudson's blackest brew.

"Drink up quickly Watson," he said pouring some coffee into one of the white mugs, "we haven't a moment to loose."

I downed the scalding liquid in three large gulps, wincing as the coffee passed over my tongue and down my throat, leaving a burning trial behind it. When I had finished, Holmes handed me my walking stick and we headed out into the wet and foggy morning.

Not a word was said between us until we found ourselves seated in a comfortable first class cabin on the five thirty train to Kent with only three minutes to spare.

"That was an extremely close call old man," I said when the train had begun to pull out of the station. "If there was any more traffic we would have missed it."

Holmes shrugged and removed his oily black briar pipe from the recesses of his grey traveling Inverness cape. He filled the pipe with his strongest shag tobacco and proceeded to begin the process of filling our cabin with acrid smoke. "You know my methods Watson," he said with a slight smile. "Do you honestly believe I'd be careless enough to miss the only train out of London?"

Without hesitating I nodded. "Yes."  
He chuckle and continued to puff on his pipe. "I did some thinking last night Watson."

"I hardly doubt it," was my reply. The ghastly pallor of his face and the dark circles beneath his eyes told me he hadn't rested at all.

"Does nothing in this problem strike you as odd?"

I shrugged my shoulders, admitting that I hadn't formed any theories at all nor had I thought about the investigation since Arthur Stevenson and I parted company in our Baker Street doorway. My friend smiled and returned to his pipe.

"Why?" I asked at length. "Was there something I should have _observed_?"

"No, no Watson," he replied and an enigmatic smile. "I was simply wondering whether or not you found anything queer."

"In answer to your query, no."

My voice must have been extremely vexed because my friend seemed to have taken pity on me. "What I meant, my dear Watson, was simply that we have not yet learned the circumstances under which Mr. Stevenson's poor sister disappeared. Nor," he said eyeing me keenly, "have we learned the age of the victim or anything about her."

"I hadn't considered that," I replied.

"Of course you didn't."

I was quite miffed by that statement but did my best not to show it. "Before," I said putting on my best physician's tone, "we pull into the station, I want to examine your chest."

He glowered at me. "I'm quite fine."

"Yes well, when you earn _your_ medical degree from Netley, then you can tell me when you are fine and when you aren't. Until then," I said standing and moving so I was standing directly over my friend, "I will be the judge of your health. Now, open your shirt, there's a good fellow."

He did as I instructed while muttering, what I believed to be a series of oaths, in French. When he had divested himself of his waistcoat, I drew the shade on the window, and waited rather impatiently while he unbuttoned his shirt. I cringed slightly when I saw the bandages were still stained by blood and lymph. Perhaps I had not done the best work suturing him. I shook my head to remove that thought, when I realized the wound was an extremely deep one and it was quite natural for it to still be oozing. "Are you in any pain?"

Succinctly, he shook his head in the negative. I raised an eyebrow, attempting to gauge whether or not the great detective was lying to me. Very slowly, I lifted his left arm and forced back a frown when I saw and felt him wince at the movement. I then allowed his arm to return to his side and then I gently began prodded his chest, abdomen and hip. All of these points forced him to stifle groans of pain. I was, however, slightly heartened to see his flinches grow less.

When the examination was finished, I offered him help putting on his shirt and waistcoat which he angrily declined. With a bit of stiffness, he was able to complete both of these actions unaided. I then raised the shade and sat opposite him once again.

"Are you quite satisfied _Doctor_?"

"Enough so that I'll allow you to continue this investigation." In all honesty, I knew the man should be back in his bed resting but his mental state, after what he considered to be 'the greatest failure' of his career, was extremely precarious and I knew that there was nothing for his mind then bringing an investigation to a successful conclusion. Quite uncharacteristically, I found myself praying that he would solve Mr. Stevenson's problem for I knew he could not withstand yet another "failure."

"Good."

The rest of the train ride was spent in companionable silence. I managed to loose myself in the pages of a yellow backed sea novel I had brought along and Holmes was quite content smoking his pipe and staring aimlessly out the window at the passing scenery but appreciating none of it. When the train finally pulled up to the station, Holmes had to literally pluck the novel from my hands.

"I daresay Watson," he said with an exaggerated frown at my novel, "we shall be engaged in a much more interesting problem then the one set forth here by Mr. Hugo."

I retrieved my book from him after we found ourselves standing on the platform searching for a free hansom. "I certainly hope so."

After several moments, Holmes managed to secure a cab and he gave the driver the address. It was when we were both comfortably seated and bouncing along towards another adventure that Holmes finally deigned to speak what was on his mind. "Quite queer isn't it Watson?"

"What is?"

"The fact that our client resides here in Kent."  
I thought for a moment and then nodded in agreement. "Now that you mention it, it is quite queer indeed. After hearing him speak last night I would have sworn he was a from London's own East End."

"I shared your sentiments until our conversation progressed. It seemed extremely difficult for him, at times, to keep up his Cockney accent. No doubt, having been educated at Eton—"

"I daresay you are joking!"

"I rarely jest Watson," came the laconic reply. "Mr. Stevenson, it seems has had a fine education but, rather then become a solicitor like his father had initially desired, he longed for adventure and decided the life of a sailor would be more conducive to his temperament. It is no little wonder that the boy and his father quarreled so about our involvement in this affair; the younger Stevenson is a great disappointment to his father and the two quarrel about everything."

"This may be a stupid question but I must know, how the devil did you learn—"

"It's elementary in itself old boy," he said with the slightest of chuckles. "You know I have numerous commonplace books. I remembered there was a Stevenson in there, between a vicar and a prostitute. He's met with some small success on the high seas, and helped the good ship _Bountiful_ bring to London the biggest catch of fish the city has ever seen. The writer had done his research, Watson, and provided much useful data about the boy."

"Holmes you astound me!" I stared at my friend, a question suddenly dawning upon me. "If he is so successful why then would he still be on the seas? And why the accent?"

"The latter half of your question is by far an easier one to answer. Imagine yourself for a moment Watson, as a young lad who had the best education possible but longed to be a sailor, a position you have been taught since youth, was much beneath your place in society. Would you not, in effort to ingratiate yourself with the sailors, many of whom have never had the privilege of ever setting foot inside an educational institute, attempt to draw less attention to your own formal education by speaking and acting the way they do?"

I nodded. "You are correct of course. Buy why then," I asked, "would be use his false persona before us?"

"When one is so accustomed to acting a part day in and day out, it becomes extremely difficult to separate yourself from that other person." He was silent for a moment and allowed his eyes to drift out the cab window. "Ah, but it seems as though we are almost here! All of our wild conjecture must cease at once so that our brains may have nothing to go on except the facts we uncover."


	4. Chapter 4

As our cab slowed I glanced out the window and saw a wrought iron gate behind which stood a large, foreboding house, its window

As our cab slowed I glanced out the window and saw a wrought iron gate behind which stood a large, foreboding house, its windows dark as though the very structure knew and could understand the grief that lingered over the members of the family who resided in it. A sudden chill ran down my spine, as though attempting to warn me that we were facing some danger close and threatening.

"We're 'ere gov'nors," the cabbie called down from his perch.

My friend and I alighted from the cab, paid the driver and made our way slowly up the long driveway.

"Stay to one side or the other Watson," my friend barked quite savagely.

I quickly jumped onto the grass which ran parallel to the drive. When I raised my eyebrows in surprise, my friend favored me with an explanation.

"If there are any footprints or wheel marks I want them as well preserved as possible."

I nodded. "I understand."

Slowly, we made our way to the house, Holmes stopping every so often in order to investigate the ground. When we finally approached the foreboding structure, Holmes pulled the bell rope. A moment later a stern butler, who strongly resembled some type of damaged penguin, greeted us.

"May I help you?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague Doctor Watson. Is the master of the house at home?"

"Do you have your card?"

Holmes quickly removed one of his ever-ready calling cards and handed it to the man.

"You may wait in the hall while I inquire about my master."

We followed the butler into a cold, stone corridor. Once we were alone, I turned to my friend whose eyes were taking in every detail of the hall. "This place is colder and darker then Baskerville Hall!"

"Yes," he replied absently. "Not a very cheery place at all."

Further conversation ceased when we were rejoined by the butler. "My master will see you now."

Without another word, we followed the man through a winding corridor until we reached an oak door. The butler knocked once and we were admitted into the antechamber. I was immediately struck by the splendor of the room. A large fireplace dominated it, the crackling flames within giving off enough heat to make the otherwise frigid room comfortable. The opulence of the room, with its gilded framed pictures and luscious carpet did not impress my friend for he was staring at the tall, stoic figure seated behind a great mahogany desk.

"Mr. Holmes?" His voice was a deep baritone and he rose to address my friend. He was a hulking man, all muscle with sharp, with stone like features and a wild mane of cropped silver hair. His stormy eyes glanced from my friend to myself as though he was unsure which of us to address.

"That is my name Major Stevenson," the detective said, nodding slightly.

"Major?" I stared at the man for a moment, taking in his countenance before it dawned on me that he was one of the officers involved in quashing the Indian Mutiny. "My apologies Sir!" I said, pulling myself upright and offering the commanding officer a brief military salute, which he quickly returned.

"At ease," he said with a faint smile. "I'm much retired now. As are you?"

I shook my head in the negative. "Discharged on medical from Afghanistan."  
"What was your regiment?"

"The Royal Berkshires," I replied.

"You served in Maiwand then?"

I nodded, not wanting to relive the horrible experiences of my days spent in Afghanistan.

Major Stevenson nodded, his confidence in us seemed to at last be established. "And how, may I ask, is a former military man like yourself involved with this fellow?" He indicated Holmes with a brief nod of his head.

"He is my trusty Boswell," Holmes interjected, annoyed, no doubt, by being so long left out of the conversation. "And the two of us are here to help return your daughter safely to you."

"How do you know of my affairs?" Major Stevenson bellowed.

"Your son consulted us yesterday evening, begging us for assistance. I was under the impression you were aware of his decision."

"I was not!" There was silence for a moment as the Major attempted to once again gain control of his emotions. "I understand that you, Mr. Holmes, have a reputation for being one of the best detectives London has to offer. Even still, I must decline your involvement for the safety of my daughter."

"That is absurd!" I ejaculated. "If anyone can discover her location it's—"

"We are," Holmes interrupted before I could finish my statement, "in no way associated with the official police. Although the letter your son showed us stated not to bring in Scotland Yard, it said nothing about consulting detectives."

The Major hesitated for a few moments, seemingly unsure whether or not our involvement would help or hinder his current situation. After what seemed like an eternity but was merely a matter of moments, Major Stevenson resumed his seat behind his desk and indicated that Holmes and I make ourselves comfortable in the two chairs opposite his cherished.

"Arthur isn't here at the moment I'm afraid," the Major said softly. "Heaven knows where the boy disappeared to. However, if you truly think you can bring my daughter back to me, I am all yours Mr. Holmes."

Holmes nodded quickly. "I would like to hear the facts of what transpired from your own lips Major."

"Surely my son has—"

"He has left out several details in his summation of events. You, being a former military man, are apt to remember much more due to your strict emotional control."

Major Stevenson cleared his throat before he began to speak. "Arthur hadn't been home for some months, thank God. Not two nights ago, my daughters Emily and Mary were in the nursery with my wife when there was a knock on the door. When I answered it, Arthur was standing on the threshold, drunk and barely keeping himself upright on his own two feet. Not wanting either of the girls to see their brother in such a state, I sent our girl Ivy, up to the nursery and through her, instructed my wife to send the children directly to bed without allowing them to return downstairs to bid me goodnight.

'After the girls were abed, my wife and I helped Arthur into his own room where he swiftly let his own drunkenness overtake him and he was a victim to Morpheous almost immediately."

"And your daughters, what are their ages?" Holmes asked, removing a lead pencil from the inside of his waistcoat.  
"Mary, the elder of the two is ten," the Major stated.

Holmes jotted the age and name on the cuff of his shirt. "And the other?"

"Emily is—" the Major was obliged to take a deep breath, "five."

"Thank you, pray continue."

"My wife, seeing as it was quite late, retired to our room. I returned here."

"For what reason?"

The Major shrugged and offered us each a cigar from a finely carved wooden box. My friend uncharacteristically declined but I accepted gratefully. I had been watching my friend from the corner of my eye and I noted, with some chagrin, that his left shoulder was indeed growing increasingly stiff. Perhaps the cigar would help keep my mind off of it. Once the Major lit his own and took a long drag on it, he continued his narrative. "I wish I could explain to you gentlemen my reasoning for remaining awake so late. I just felt ill at ease."

Although Holmes raised his eyebrows skeptically at this remark I found it quite commonplace amongst soldiers, especially those who are no stranger to battle. "Soldier's intuition Major?"

The elder man nodded at me, grateful, it seemed for an understanding soul. "Precisely Doctor Wilson."

"Watson," I gently corrected.

The Major chuckled but there was no mirth behind it. "You will excuse me I'm sure Doctor _Watson_," he said. "But my mind is rather uneasy."

I waved aside his apology and Holmes once again inquired as to his actions two nights previous.

"I was unable to settle down because of, what Doctor Watson has quite aptly termed, soldier's intuition."

"Any reason you can think of for such uneasiness Major? Had you received and threatening or unnerving correspondence earlier in the day?"

"No, nothing of the sort, although I do wish that had been the case."

"Major," Holmes said, his voice suddenly icy, "I am here to aid you in finding yoru daughter. I suggest you be candid with me."

Both the Major and I were taken aback by Holmes's accusations. There had been nothing in the soldier's mannerism to suggest to me dishonesty. However, after a few moments, the Major's cheeks reddened in obvious embarrassment.

"You are correct of course Mr. Holmes," he said with a slight nod towards the impassive detective, "and you have my humblest apologies. The reason I was so uneasy that night was because my son had returned."

"Your son makes you feel uneasy?" I could not help but be surprised.

"Ever since he was a young boy, my son and I have not exactly gotten on like old pals. There has always been a strain in our relationship. It did grow worse, of course, after he had left Eton and had every intention of throwing away what could have peen a prosperous career in either her Majesty's Army of as a solicitor in order to be a common sailor.

'He had been home twice since his voyages began on the ship _Bountiful_ and every time there has been a considerable row between us, mostly over money, that successfully puts me in a foul mood and upsets the girls considerably. I knew, of course, when I saw him on the doorstep two nights ago, his habits had not altered and before he once again departed, the entire household would be upset."

Holmes nodded. "And how does your son get along with his other siblings?"

"Despite his character flaws, they're all very fond of one another and Arthur is especially fond of Emily. That is, no doubt, the reason behind his sudden urge to drag you gentlemen all the way from London down to here. This entire business has greatly upset all of us, especially him."

Holmes nodded. "Did you notice anything unusual the night of your daughter's disappearance?"

The Major shook his head in the negative. "I stayed down here until around quarter to eleven, doing some business—"

"What type of business?"

"I don't see what concern my affairs are of—"

"At this moment, Major Stevenson, I am uncertain as to what is truly important. However, I would like to possess all the facts I can in order to better aid our investigation."

Once again the Major took a deep breath. "I have had some great success as a military man, Mr. Holmes and have invested much of my money into what I considered to be wise investments."

At that statement, Holmes glanced at me with mirth twinkling in his grey eyes, because I had been considering investing in South African land, an offer that my friend thankfully forced me to reconsider."I keep a close watch on my money Mr. Holmes, and should anything unfortunate happen to me, I want to ensure that my wife and family are well provided for."

"About how much, Major Stevenson, are you worth?"

"I—according to my solicitor, almost two hundred fifty thousand pounds."

Holmes let out a long whistle of admiration at the amount which caused the Major to color considerable.  
"I—I have been afforded some success in my investments," he said by way of explanation. "As your friend here can tell you Mr. Holmes, the army pension is not much, however when invested properly, it can turn about quite nicely."

"I can see that. Does anyone, save your solicitor, know this fact?"

"No," Major Stevenson replied, taking a long drag on his fine cigar, "not even my wife is aware of how much money we actually have."

"And this house," Holmes indicated with a wave of his hand, "how, as a mere army man, did you come by it?"

"It was my father's and his father's before him and, I suspect, his father's before him."

"And you were the eldest so upon your father's death you—"

"Although I did receive the house, my other brother was quite well off after father's passing. Father was considerate of both of his children and left Victor with a sizable sum of money."

"Have you spoken to—"

"My brother currently resides in America, Mr. Holmes," the Major said, "and is making well for himself out West dealing with gold."

Holmes nodded. "And when you finally retired for the evening, were the windows all snibbed from the inside?"

The Major indicated the windows behind us. "They are as you see them now. Although we have competent servants, not many of course, I am, after all a private man Mr. Holmes and am not one to tolerate the wagging tongues of the lower class, I always make the evening rounds myself after Billy the gatekeeper locks up for the night. Once can never be too careful, as I'm sure you know."

"Quite."

"And before you ask, I was not awakened during the night by any unusual sounds. That is what makes this a most curious affair Mr. Holmes. Had some intruder stepped onto the property Willie, our mastiff, would certainly have alerted us. And yet, it seems someone had because the next morning my wife and I were awakened by a horrible scream coming from upstairs.

'When we arrived in my daughters' room, Mary was cowering under the covers, screaming in fear and Emily was no where to be found."

"And your son? Where was he during this commotion?"

"He had heard the scream too and, apparently, after checking on the girls and noticing his sister wasn't in her bed, he rushed outside to search the property. When he came inside he was holding a letter," the Major rummaged through his desk for moment and then frowned. "The note was here I—"

"Your son brought it with him to London," Holmes said. "At least one mystery has been cleared up."

"Yes, I am sorry, my son did mention he was taking it with him. Honestly, my mind—"

"Understandable my dear Major," Holmes said. "Is there anything else you can remember?"

The Major sadly shook his head. "Nothing Mr. Holmes, absolutely nothing."

"And you have not seen your daughter nor have you had any correspondence since the initial note?"

"None and that is what is so puzzling. I would think that whoever has—wherever Emily _is _I would have thought—"

"Father! Father!"

The sound of the study door banging against the wall startled all of us and we turned to find and extremely agitated Arthur Stevenson brandishing a torn piece of fabric in his hand.

"What is that?" The Major asked.

"It's part of Emily's petticoat! Her kidnapper must have left it behind!"

"Where precisely did you find that Mr. Stevenson?" Holmes asked quickly.

"On the far side of the property, closet to the woods. It was 'angin' on a low branch of a tree it was."

"Here now boy," the Major said sternly, "you will be polite in the company of these gentlemen and you will speak properly. I do not want to hear any of that sailor rubbish in my house, do you understand?"

"But father this 'ere's an important clue! Wot if 'e left—"

"Give it here lad," Holmes said extending his hand for the material.

Reluctantly, Arthur handed the fabric to my friend who examined it minutely. "It does appear to be from the underskirts of a dress, but of that we cannot be one hundred percent certain." He took a closer look and then, quite unceremoniously tossed the material aside. "This will be of no help to us," Holmes said when both the elder and the younger Stevenson stared at him with bewildered eyes, "it is a staged clue, not a real one."

"'Ere now, 'ow the devil can you tell that?"  
"Simplicity in itself," Holmes replied. "But I do not want to waste time explaining my deductions just now. Arthur, despite the fact it will be of no help to us, I want to see the exact spot where the material was found. Major," Holmes quickly turned to the elder man who had bent over and picked up the fabric from the floor. He was staring at it with grief stricken eyes. "The mastiff, is he about?"

Sadly the Major shook his head. "No, Billy has him under lock and key I can assure you."

"Very well! Let us be off then!"

Without another word, Holmes turned on his heel and led both myself and Arthur out of the study. When the younger lad stepped ahead of us to lead the way, Holmes grasped my arm. "This is a foul business Watson," he whispered softly in my ear. "A very foul business."

"The fabric Holmes," I whispered back. "How do you know it—"

"The tare was not done by happenstance, the line was too straight, not jagged as one would expect if a young girl got the bottom of her skirts caught on a loose branch. The dirt too, was placed there for, in its smears you could distinctly make out the marks of fingers. But, quiet now Watson, we will discuss our findings later. Now, we must see where and why the clue was staged. We are coming Mr. Stevenson! We are coming!"


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Hey all! I've returned with yet another installment of "The Kidnapper." I hope you enjoy it, please R&R and let me know what you think! **

* * *

We hurried our pace until we were on the heels of our guide

We hurried our pace until we were on the heels of our guide. We made our way through several corridors until the outside sunlight momentarily blinded us. The sun was, of course, a very nice change from the horrid rains that had come over our tiny island as of late. Holmes, of course, was gladdened by the sun because the drying mud would preserve any footprints if any were to be found.

"Now," Holmes said when we reached what I believed to be the edge of the property line, "what exactly were you doing out here when you found this bit of cloth?"

"Aye, I might be askin' you gents the same question. You didn't tell me when you were 'eadin' 'ere."

"Mr. Stevenson, I am not obliged to tell you my actions," Holmes reprimanded sternly. "If you would no longer like my assistance—"

"Cor, no Mr. 'Olmes, sir, I didn't mean no 'arm I didn't. This whole matter, it—it's got me all shaken up it 'as."

"Answer the question boy," Holmes did not even attempt to hide the fact his patience level was quickly wearing thin.

"I was out, doin' another search for Em I wos sir, an' I spied that piece o' cloth out o' the corner of me eye, I did. I 'urried over t' it an' I knew wot it was b'fore I even uncovered it."

"Uncovered it? I thought you said it was snagged on a branch."

"Aye sir, it was sir, but it was a fallen branch it was sir, 'ere 'ave a look 'ere." Arthur Stevenson gesticulated to a fallen tree branch some five yards before us.  
I had thought Holmes would have rushed over to it, but he remained where he was, rooted to the spot. He sternly looked at our client. "It was there that you found it?"

"Aye sir."

"Why did you not consult me at once before you removed it?"

"Crikey sir, I didn't know you were 'ere gov's."

"A simple oversight Holmes," I whispered. "Sure you can understand—"

"Quiet Watson!" My friend barked. "Mr. Stevenson I would like to examine the bottoms of your shoes please."  
"My wot?"

"If there are any footprints still left, I would like to ensure that I can omit you from their source." There was a slight bite in the detective's words.

"You're daft you are sir," Arthur said, removing one of his boots and handing it to the consulting detective.

"And the other one as well Mr. Stevenson," Holmes said carefully inspecting the bottom of the first boot.

"Bleedin' daft you are gov, 'avin' a man stand out 'ere in the mud wearin' only 'is stockings." Despite his complaints, the young man handed Holmes his other boot, which the detective also examined closely.

Once his examination was complete, Holmes returned the shoes to the boy and quickly began inspecting the area where the fabric was found. As I watched him crawl this way and that on his hands and knees, letting out little ejaculations of surprise and dismay, I was instantly reminded of a hound dog hot upon an important and pungent scent. After a few moments, my friend stood, brushed off his brown tweed trousers and rejoined myself and Mr. Stevenson.

"How, my dear boy, did you come to recognize your sister's petticoats?"

The question caught the youth off guard and he stared at him friend for a moment, unsure what the detective was asking. "Wot?"

"Surely, you, as a young man, are not interested in the least with popular women's fashions, nor, I fancy, do you make it a habit to inspect the under clothes of your younger sisters. So how, pray, did you come to recognize such an otherwise innocuous bit of cloth?"

The young man reddened so deeply that his face and his hair blended perfectly together. "Aye sir, you're right on both accounts you are sir. But, I 'ave lived 'ere most of me life I 'ave sir an' I'm quite use to our girl doin' the wash I am. An' Ivy, our girl, she 'as the worst 'abit o' 'angin' the wash out to dry right in plain view she does. So, it is quite safe to say gov'nor that I've seen both o' their clothes and me mum's as well, on several occasions."

I forced myself to suppress a chuckled when I heard just how much our young client was trying to maintain his carefully acquired East End way of speaking. Being home, however, caused old habits to creep up into his speech, giving his words an odd mixture between lascar and well-bred gentleman.

"But surely, Mr. Stevenson, you've been away for quite some time aboard your ship, have you not? Now, correct me if I am erring Doctor, but I do believe it would be a medical improbability if your sisters have not both grown some inches since you saw them last. Surely, if they are both healthy with normal spurts of growth, they would not be wearing the same underclothes you had seen last time you visited."

Stevenson hesitated for a moment and, if possible, his face grew even more red. "Aye, that is true Mr. 'Olmes sir. An' I'm 'esitating to tell you this I am, but if I wont your 'elp you need to know everything. Last night, after I awoke, I staggered 'round a bit an' went into the kitchen to 'ave a drink of water I did. When I 'eaded back into me room, I mistakenly walked into me sister's room I did. An' there, I saw me sister Emily, sleepin' soundly but there was a faded yellow stain upon 'er under clothes there was. I couldn't 'elp but notice it. When I saw the fabric this mornin' the stain was in the same spot."

"I see. Well, you are certainly observant Mr. Stevenson."

"Aye sir, I try to be sir. But I also 'ad me candle, the wax burnin' at me fingers which gave me some light."

"I see, I see. But there is nothing more we can learn out here Mr. Stevenson, if you would kindly lead us back into the house I would—"

"Right this way Mr. H—'Olmes," Stevenson said, once again walking in front of us.

"This investigation is growing darker and darker Watson," my friend said softly to me as we walked behind our guide.

"It seems as though everyone here is behaving suspiciously in addition to the letter from the outsider who has taken—"

"I would bet my life on it Watson," Holmes said to me, "that there was no stain upon that fabric."

"But then how would—"

He shrugged his lean shoulders. "At the moment, I must confess, I am as much in the dark as you. However, I hope before the evening is out we shall have some answers."

"Where is it you want to be govs?" Arthur said, stopping in front of the large door.

"The Major—your father—is he still is his study?" My friend asked quickly.

"'Ow should I know? I was bleedin' wif you gents, aye?" When he got no response from either myself or Holmes, he held the door open for us and bid us to enter. "Won't 'urt to check though."

We once again found ourselves seated in Major Stevenson's study, this time, however young Arthur was seated in the third chair.

"Mr. Holmes," the Major said with obvious distress, "did you discover anything that might lead me to my daughter?"

"I have learned several things Major," Holmes replied, "but nothing significant at the moment."

Both the Stevenson men groaned in agitation. The elder's shoulders stooped as though he was defeated. "All is lost then?" The Major asked sadly. "Surely if you cannot find—"

"Major Stevenson," my friend said with more warmth in his tone then I had previously heard in his dealings with the man, "as a member Her Majesty's Army, surely you know not all tactics can be deployed immediately. Surely, Watson can tell you that—"

"This is not a military operation Mr. Holmes," the Major replied, "this is the wellbeing of my daughter!"

"I understand your frustration Major," I said quickly. Holmes had attempted, in one of his rare moments of compassion, to make the Major feel more at ease, but instead managed to anger the fellow more with his flippant comments. Such a rejection to Holmes's highly sensitive nature would bode nothing but sarcasm and acrid remarks from the detective's tongue in all future dealings with the man if I did not intervene. "But all my friend was saying—"

"I know Doctor," the Major replied, the bite quickly fading from his voice. "And I appreciate your sentiments Mr. Holmes." It too, seemed as though Major Stevenson had perceived something of my friend's nature and was trying his best to stay on the good side of the great detective. "I understand patience is vital however, I find it difficult to be patient when the life of my daughter has been threatened."

Much to my surprise, Holmes did not take offense to the Major's sharp tongue and continued to speak to him in soothing, gentle tones. "You have my word Major, that we am doing our best to bring your daughter safely back to you."

Major Stevenson nodded gravely. "Yes, that much I know gentlemen." He swallowed for a moment and stared longingly at the brandy decanter on the bookshelf opposite his desk. However, his strong will prevented him from taking a quick escape from his pain. "But I have read something of Doctor Watson's accounts in the Strand and I know you did not come back into my home without a reason."

Holmes nodded and flashed me a whip-quick sardonic smile. Quickly though, he turned his attention back to the Major. "I have a request to make Major and it is a delicate one."

"Anything if it will aid you."

"May I speak with your elder daughter? Surely if anyone has any—"

"That's bleedin' out of the question!" Arthur Stevenson shouted as he fairly leapt to his feet. "You aint gon' subject Anne to any more trouble you aint."

"Arthur, sit down!" The Major's voice shot through the room with the same crack as a gun.

"Me, sit down? An' let these two gents expose Anne to some'fin' more 'orrifyin' then she's already been through? Cor, that's bleedin' crazy an' I won't—"

"Mr. Stevenson, pray calm yourself," Holmes said with some exasperation. "Nothing will be gained by a fit of histrionics."

"'istrionics? You're accusing me of 'istrionics? 'Onestly Mr. 'Olmes, you're wontin' to—"  
"Arthur that is enough! _You_ are the one who brought these gentlemen down here from London and we are going to assist them in any way that we can." After successfully silencing his suddenly truculent son, the Major turned his steely gaze on my friend. "Mr. Holmes, while ordinarily I would not mind such an innocent request, my son does raise some good points. Anne has indeed suffered—"

"If you would prefer it," Holmes said glancing at me, "Doctor Watson can speak with the girl as well as examine her, to see how she is fairing both physically as well as emotionally."

I think the Major and I were equally shocked. Never before, in our long association, had my friend entrusted me with such an important and potentially delicate task. The young Arthur too, seemed to be quite surprised by my friend's request because he looked at my friend keenly.

"Wot?"

"It is quite clear to me," Holmes waved one of his long, ink stained white hands, indicating the entire room, "that everyone present seems to object to my questioning of the girl. So—" Holmes said, stopping Major Stevenson's protest, "—I would rather not cause any _unnecessary _distress to you Major, or to your family. Hence is why I suggest that Watson speak with her. He is obviously more experienced then I at this type of interview."

Knowing the man as I did, I knew there was something more to his request then simply his occasional lack of compassion. I was not sure what he hoped I could discover instead of him, but I knew, if the interview was granted that he would give me specific instructions. I don't know why, but my bones suddenly told me that this investigation had taken a turn for the darker and more sinister then either one of us had originally believed.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Sorry for the long wait. Life's been crazy. Please R&R to let me know what you thought of this latest installment. Enjoy!**

The Major hesitated for some moments, carefully weighing my friend's request. "It is true," he said more to himself then to either of us, "that Anne has not seen a physician sine the incident."

"It would be wise Major," I said as gently as I could. "Although you might not have noticed any injuries on her, it is quite possible that whoever…removed your younger daughter from this house had attempted to harm your eldest as well."

"I hadn't thought of that," Major Stevenson admitted, his eyes suddenly focusing on an imaginary spot of lint on his immaculate trousers. "Perhaps it would be best then Doctor Watson. If it would not be any trouble—"

"It is no trouble at all Major I can assure you," Holmes said, offering the Major a quip of a smile. "Doctor Watson is a highly skilled surgeon."

"But father—"

"Arthur, you will show Doctor Watson to Anne's room."  
"Holmes, would you be good enough to—"

"No Doctor I shan't," he replied with a brief smile. "I shall remain here and discuss things with the Major as well as examine the rest of the house."

"Then before we go, Mr. Stevenson," I said to our client, "may I have a word with you Holmes?"

Without waiting for a reply, my friend rose languidly from the chair he was occupying, grabbed my elbow and quickly lead me from the room. "What?" He barked.

"I don't know what kind of game you are playing here Holmes," I whispered fiercely, "but I am not in the mood to be left in the dark. What type of questions should I be asking this girl?"

Gently, he placed a hand on my bicep and gave it a squeeze. "I am quite certain, my dear fellow, that there are aspects to this case that will shock the sensibilities of any normal member of British society. Knowing your overly sensitive nature, I do not want to reveal too much. However, I want you to question her closely as to her relationship to his older brother."

"Do you think he is somehow involved?"

"I didn't say that Watson," he replied. "But I am disregarding no one. Also, question her closely about the Major and the events two nights previous."

"And you want me to medically examine her. What sort of injuries should I be looking for?"

Some trick of the gaslight made Holmes's face suddenly appear waxen. "I—I do not want to prejudice your findings Watson," he said, his voice sounding slightly hoarse. "Make a _close_ examination of her though. Be extremely _thorough._"

A chill ran down my spine as a faint glimmer of understanding began to set fire in my brain. "Holmes surely you don't suspect—"  
"After your examination we will converse in more detail."

I knew I would gain nothing more from him so I returned to the study where Arthur Stevenson was anxiously waiting for me.

"That took a bleedin' long time," he grumbled.

I was surprised by his change of attitude since we had arrived at his home and questioned him about it.

"I'm sorry Doctor," he said as we began walking towards a flight of winding steps. "It's jus' you an' Mr. 'Olmes bein' 'ere, it's makin' everything more real to me. An' I respect you gents I do, I swear it, but I don't want no 'arm to come to me Annie."

"Annie? Is that what you call her?"

The youth nodded and drooped his head. My heart went out to him at that moment because I knew how difficult it was to loose someone you love. Gently, I patted the boy's shoulder. "We'll find your sister Mr. Stevenson. You just need to have faith in Mr. Holmes."

"'E's treatin' me like a bleedin' criminal 'e is!" The youth blurted angrily.

"That's just his nature Mr. Stevenson," I said in my most mollifying tone. "He means nothing by it, I assure you."

"I'm glad you're the gent you are gov," he said to me.

I smiled but said nothing and we continued our walk in silence. When we finally finished our stair climb and reached the second floor, we walked down a long corridor until we arrived in front of a much scarred and faded oak door.

"'Ere you are gov."

"Thank you Mr. Stevenson," I said, intending for our client to leave me alone with his sister.

"You tryin' t' get rid o' me?"

"I've found it best," Mr. Stevenson, "that medical examinations be done privately."

"I will be present as a witness Mr. Stevenson!" Holmes's strident voice arrived up the stairs before I saw him fairly leap up the remaining ones. "You have my word that no harm will come to your sister."

With a muttered oath, Arthur Stevenson left, leaving me staring at Sherlock Holmes. "I though you didn't—"

"Given the nature of what you might uncover, I felt it best that there be someone else present in the room," Holmes said.

I nodded and gently knocked on the door.

"Come it!" It was a woman's voice and I quickly opened it.

Once my eyes adjusted to the dim light I saw a child, of no more then ten years old, lying on a narrow bed, the covers pulled up to her throat. A young woman was seated beside her.

"Excuse me," I said gently, "I am Doctor Watson and this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I have been given permission by Major Stevenson to examine Anne."

"Doctor Watson?" The woman rose and I quickly realized she was not as young as I had originally thought. She was a handsome woman, with long auburn hair and quick, hazel eyes. Lines of worry crease her face and she approached me with some caution. "I am Violet Stevenson, the Major's wife."

I nodded a greeting to her, as did my friend. "I hope you do not mind the interruption, but your husband informed me that your daughter had not seen a physician since the incident."

Violet Stevenson nodded to her sleeping daughter. "I appreciate your concern for her Doctor. Shall I give you some privacy?"

"It would be best if you remained," I replied quickly. After all my patient was no more then a child and if she got frightened at least her mother would be present to soothe her.

"But if you would oblige me, Mrs. Stevenson," Holmes said indicating another section of the room, "I would like to ask you some questions."

After Holmes and the girl's mother had retreated to the far corner of the room, I sat down next to my patient and observed her for a moment. Holmes, of course, was my superior in observations of non-medical sense, but I was his when it came to observing the well-being of people. The young girl's face was smooth, but there were dark circles beneath her closed eyes and, much to my chagrin, a purple bruise appeared to be forming around her neck as though someone had attempted to strangle her.

"Anne?" I whispered gently.

Very slowly, the young girl opened her eyes and stared at me with mute horror.

"It's all right," I said soothingly. "I am not going to hurt you. I'm a doctor."

"A doctor?" I was surprised to hear skeptism in her voice, considering most children believed what you told them.

I nodded. "Yes, that's right. I want to help you."

She stared at me for a moment, as though unsure as to whether or not I could be trusted. "You're going to bring Emily back?"

I smiled and allowed my eyes to take in more of her extremely pale countenance. Instead of having the usual twinkle I always associated with childhood, this young girl's eyes were deep set and had a haunted and hunted expression. There are nights, even now, when I see those eyes in my most horrific nightmares. "I might not be able to, but my friend Sherlock Holmes," I pointed to the far side of the room where I could see the animated figure of my friend speaking in hushed tones to the young girl's mother, "certainly will."

A brief light flickered across those hunted eyes, momentarily frightening me. In all honesty, I wanted nothing then to bolt from the room and escape those eyes forever. However, I had a medical duty to tend to this child and I would not shirk at it. "Sherlock Holmes, the detective?"

"That's right," I said gently. I had still not made an attempt to examine her. I knew, of course, from treating children for so many years, that it was best to establish a relationship with them, because, once they trusted you the examinations went must more smoothly for both myself and for my patients.

"If you're his friend," the girl whispered, "then you're Doctor Watson?"

"What a smart little girl you are!" I said, forcing a smile.

"At night before he—"a frowned crossed her features, darkening them considerably. "Arthur reads us your stories from a…a magazine. Papa doesn't know though," she whispered. "He doesn't know anything."

For reasons unknown to me at the time, a sudden chill clutched my heart and refused to let it go. The panic attack I had barely managed to hold off in Major Stevenson's study suddenly threatened to rear its head once more. Of course I could reveal none of this to anyone present so I cleared my throat. "I won't tell him."

Her eyes suddenly brightened. "You'll keep a secret?"

I nodded, wanting nothing more then to make the girl feel comfortable in my presence. "I've kept secrets," I whispered, "for the Queen of this country. I'm certain I can keep yours."

She smiled at me, but it was not an expression of joy, but rather, was an expression of extreme relief. Why one so young should have to have such an expression I did not know at the time. Looking back, I wish I had never learned the reason.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: This chapter is the darkest of the fic so far but it is not graphic. Please R&R to let me know what you think.**

* * *

As casually as I could, I pointed to her neck. "That looks like it hurts."

She said nothing but gently touched the forming bruise as though she was unaware of its presence until I brought it to her attention.

"How did that happen?"

She didn't answer but contented herself by twisting the bed clothes anxiously in her tiny hands, which I also noted, were covered by tiny abrasions.

"Your hands," I said as gently as I could, "do they hurt at all?"

"A little," she confessed. Suddenly she seemed so much younger then her ten years and I wanted nothing more then to embrace the poor child and tell her no one would ever hurt her again. However, I knew as a physician I could do no such thing so I opened the black medical bag which was lying at my feet. I wondered, quite briefly if Holmes had anticipated the need for my skills when he handed it to me back in Baker Street, which seemed years away not mere hours.

"I have something in here that might help that hurt."

"Does help all hurts?" The question was asked with such childish innocence that I was forced to turn my head so that the girl did not see the tears that suddenly welled up in my eyes. Suddenly, with striking clarity, I knew all the torments this _child _had endured and, although I have always found it a literary conceit to say, I felt my own heart shatter into pieces. Fiercely I wiped at my leaking eyes before returning to my patient.

"It'll help some of them," I whispered gently.

I took her hand and could not help but notice the tensing of her body when I touched her. As gently as I could, I began applying a salve to the deeper cuts on her hands. If the solution burned, she gave no outward indication. "There," I said when I had completed my ministrations to her hands. "All better?"

With eyes that dared not to hope, she nodded.

"Good," I forced a smile which seemed to put her at ease. Very gently, I touched her neck, where the bruise was beginning to form. Although she violently jerked away from my hand, I knew she realized there was nothing predatory about my touch. "I simply want to make sure nothing was…" I allowed my words to trail off. I was going to use the phrase 'broken' but it was quite obvious the child lying before me was more then just broken; indeed her very spirit seemed to have been shattered and, for once in my life, I, the literary man, was at a loss for words. "I want to ensure everything is all right."

As my hands gently examined her neck and throat, I felt her visibly wince when my fingers brushed against the larynx and delicate hyoid bone. There was no doubt that whomever abused her in such a fashion had fractured both bones. After concluding that the child had no difficulty breathing, I simply let the injury be, knowing there was nothing I could do to treat it. Since it was only a hairline fracture, or so I believed without actually being able to see it, the injury would, in time heal itself.

"How did this happen?" I asked once again indicating her throat. "You received a serious injury."

When she didn't respond, I changed tactics.

"I know you're fond of your brother," I said as I gently eased the bedclothes away from her shuddering frame. Holmes had promised the Major I would examine the young girl and, after seeing the few injuries she had sustained, I was too frightened for her wellbeing to stop my ministrations. "Does he know this happened to you?"

Reluctantly, the young girl nodded.

"When did it happen?"

"Two nights ago," she whispered.

Ignoring the constant tensing of her muscles, I allowed my fingers to gently trail over the sides of her body and noted, with some chagrin, that she had several severely bruised ribs. "Is that the night your sister disappeared?"

Again she nodded and whimpered softly as my hands traveled lower and I gently felt her pelvis for signs of bruising. I felt my own hands shake and it was only because I feared for her health that I didn't jump to my feet and bolt from the room. When I saw the bottom of her was nightshirt stained with blood, the demons in my imagination were no longer needed because I knew, with sickening certainty what sad fate befell this innocent child. I removed some gauze from my medical bag and, after taking a deep breath, gently tended to her more sensitive wounds. I cleared my throat and found it difficult to breathe. "Wh—who did this to you?"

"Can you stop the hurt?" She asked me.

This time, in the face of her childish innocence, I could not prevent the tears from flowing. I rapidly blinked my eyes in vain effort to keep the tidal wave of emotion from crushing me. "I—I can surely try."

When I was certain that her wounds were dressed and that none of them were life threatening, I quickly recovered the girl with her blanket and administered to her a mild sedative. I rose and, much to my surprise, found Holmes and Mrs. Stevenson had vacated the room. As I was picking up my medical bag, Anne's trembling hand caught the sleeve of my jacket. I looked up into those sad, haunted eyes.

"You remember your promise?" She asked with maturity much beyond her years.

"Yes. Rest easy now Anne," I said, soothingly stroking the hair from her forehead. "You'll be right as rain soon enough."

"Thank you Doctor Watson," she whispered before closing her eyes and falling into a fitful slumber. I watched her for a moment, wondering what kind of monster could possibly harm such an innocent child, and when the tidal wave threatened to crash upon me, I quickly vacated the room and stepped into the frigid corridor.

With shaking limbs I closed the door behind me and, after ensuring no one was around, I slid down to the floor, held my head in my hands and wept bitterly over what I had just seen. All the tortures I had endured at the hands of the Ghazis in Afghanistan, all the horror I had seen on the battlefield, all the depravity I had seen fighting for justice besides Holmes, it all paled in comparison to the ruthless, cruelty I had just seen. As I mourned for the girl, I suddenly felt a weight on my shoulder. I raised my tearstained face and found myself staring into the much-troubled face of Sherlock Holmes.

"My dear Watson," his voice was soft and gentle, a tone I had never previously associated with the man. Some trick of the gaslight gave the impression that there were unshed tears in his grey eyes.

"Holmes I've never—I didn't expect—"

He knelt beside me and, quite uncharacteristically, pulled me into an awkward embrace. "I know."

There was a resonance in his voice, a certainty and finality in his tone that suddenly forced another horrible image to enter my mind. Frantically, I clutched him and I felt him shuddering against me in vain attempt to keep a tenuous hold over his own emotions. His body language told me all I needed to know and a new wave of tears threatened to spill from my eyes. Holmes held me for a moment longer and then quickly pulled away, knowing I had divined what he had so long attempted to keep hidden.

"Do not," he said, his tone harsh, "cry for the boy I was. Instead, respect the man I have become."

"I can do both my friend," I said gently.

A moment passed where neither of us said a word for there was none that could adequately express the emotions we both were feeling. Hastily, so as not to make him feel uncomfortable, I wiped my eyes with the backs of my hands, attempting to stem the tide of tears. "I'm sorry old man," I said with enough gravity to convey my meaning to him.

He nodded and favored me with a twitch of a smile. He too, took a moment to compose himself before standing once again and squaring his shoulders manfully. "All right?" He asked when he saw I was no longer crying.

Although I felt cold and sick and wanted nothing more then to run from this house of depravity, I nodded my head. If Holmes, after what he had so reluctantly revealed, could see this investigation through to the end, it was for damned sure I would too. I quickly got to my feet and straightened my tie. "Yes."

We walked down the hall in silence for some moments before I had to voice the thought that kept plaguing my mind. "How did you suspect—"  
"The stain Watson, or in that case the missing stain." His voice was strained and the movements in his upper torso were extremely stiff. I wanted to at least examine his wound but I knew such a request would be out of place and be rejected before it even finished passing my lips.

"The stain?"

He whirled around to face me, his grey eyes wild. "Think man, think!"

My mind was too fogged and I was too emotionally exhausted to think. "Holmes really I don't—"  
"The hesitancy Watson! Damnation! All the doors are closing against us. Time, old man, the Father keeps ticking away; every moment he fancies to move his hands is a moment closer to disaster for the children of this house!"

Never before had I heard him speak so passionately about an investigation. Even when his cases had involved the welfare of children, he had always kept his mask of cool indifference, always kept his desire for critical distance. But now, with this investigation so close to the terrible past he had attempted to keep hidden for all these years, Holmes's masks were slowly slipping, one by one, leaving him vulnerable and hungrier then I had ever seen him to bring a monster to justice.

I will confess that I was, at that time, unable to follow his drifting thoughts and only gained the pressing need to resolve this matter as quickly as possible before Holmes himself completely unraveled and another victim was added to the already growing list. "The Major?" I asked, chagrined to hear my voice crack ever so slightly. I did not want to believe a fellow brother of Her Majesty's Army could inflict such violence onto someone so innocent.

Holmes shook his head and squeezed my bicep in a comforting fashion. "Fear not old man," his tone was oddly soothing, "I do believe he is quite innocent in this matter."

I exhaled shakily. "Thank God. Should I tell—"  
"Yes, tell him the situation as you have evaluated. I am certain too, that our own Arthur Stevenson would be interested to hear the tragic fate that has befallen his beloved sister."

I knew better then to question his sardonic tone and continued to walk down the corridor with him in silence. Suddenly, he stopped and turned to me.

"Doctor." It was not the fist time he had called me by my professional title, but I realized he did it in attempt to once again be master of his emotions. "The bruising about her neck," he indicated his own throat, "what would say was the cause?"

I had served as an emergency coroner for the Yard on more then one occasion and was familiar with blemishes found on the body. "A ligature of some sort," I answered quickly. "A piece of rough hemp is most likely, judging from the few splinters I removed from her flesh."

"Any idea why?"

I shrugged. "Perhaps, whomever took Emily had wanted to eliminate the only witness to the crime."

"Perhaps," he echoed.

"You've another theory then?"

He shrugged his narrow shoulders and stopped at a door at the top of the stairs. He placed his ear to the wood, and, after a moment, he turned the knob and motioned me inside. He quickly shut the door behind us.

"We haven't much time," he whispered into my ear. "I've sent Mr. Stevenson to telegram Mrs. Hudson that we would be arriving home much later then I had originally anticipated."

It was a ruse my friend had used before with some limited success. "You suspect the young sailor then?"

"I suspect everyone Watson," he replied as he began to meticulously go through the drawers of a nearby dresser. "However, all things considered, the younger Stevenson seems as good a suspect as any."

"Ah, a search of opportunity then."

"You could call it that, yes."

I watched him for a few moments, my mind wondering, momentarily, how such a man could survive all he had been through and still try to help fight for the goodness of humanity through his detective work. I would never voice such an opinion aloud, for it would only be met by a scoff and sardonic jeer, because he simply saw his work as a series of problems, but, in light of what I had learned of the fellow, I saw it as his attempt to right the wrongs of the world so no person would ever again have to suffer as he had in his youth.

"Watson!" The exasperation in his tone shattered my thoughts into a million pieces, each of them too small to pick up and once again make into a cogitative whole.

"Yes Holmes?"

"Instead of standing there staring at me as though I am some specimen beneath a microscope," I blushed at his accusatory tone, "you might consider assisting me."

"What are you looking for?"

"Anything that might be of use to us!"

Having broken the law with him on numerous occasions, rifling through a man's desk and drawers without permission did not bother me in the least. As I sifted through the younger Stevenson's private papers, Holmes busied himself by lifting one edge of the boy's mattress. A startled cry exited his throat and the mattress fell, causing me to turn around.

My friend's face had gone completely white and I detected the slightest tremor in his usually rock steady hands. He was leaning against one of the walls, as though his legs threatened to give way beneath him. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down in faux swallows, attempting to force saliva into his desert like mouth. Never before had I seen him so visibly shaken.

"Holmes?" My voice was soft and gentle, revealing none of the sheer terror I felt at seeing him so out of character. When he did not appear to have heard me, I cautiously approached him and laid a hand on his shoulder, causing him to jump. "Holmes?"

"Watson, good God man." His grey eyes were wide with alarm and I shuddered to think what was beneath the mattress, which could cause the stolid, self-contained Sherlock Holmes, to be so visibly shaken.

"Holmes are you all—"

"Yes, yes, I am fine thank you." He shook his head in effort to banish whatever thoughts plagued his mind.

"What did you discover?" I started to move towards the mattress when—

"Don't!"

The shrillness in his voice stopped me mid-stride. I turned round to face him and saw his face once again go ashen. "Holmes?"

"Don't Watson," he whispered, shaking his head. "Your nature is far too sensitive and you are far too poor of an actor to act as though the photographs beneath that mattress were never seen."

I was startled by his words and I once again approached the mattress. It would be foolish of my not to admit my curiosity was piqued.

"Watson, our investigation now relies on cunning and acting, two things which are not your strongest suits. You are far, far too honest. If not for my sake then think of the little girl's life we are endeavoring to save!"

"But Holmes, surely I can—"

"Return to the desk and see if you can find any receipts or documentation of recent trade. Even if it seems like a transaction between Mr. Stevenson and a tobacconist I want to see it. It could be of the utmost importance."

"Certainly." I returned then to the desk, sifting through papers as Holmes once again cautiously lifted the mattress.

I watched him, from the corner of my eye, remove a packet of photographs with less then steady hands. He quickly flipped through them, his face growing paler as each image passed before his eyes. When he had finished his examination, he moved to replace them.

It was as he lifted the mattress that a photograph fell from his hand and I bent to retrieve it for him that I saw one of the startling images. I, quite literally, felt my blood turn to ice in my veins at the image imprinted on the front of the card. I will spare you, my dear readers, the horror of describing the horrid thing I held in my hands, the terrible photograph of a small child who lost her innocence far too soon. With a shaking hand I returned the photograph to Holmes who took it and once again shoved the lurid things beneath the mattress, out of sight from the public eye.

We stared at one another for a moment, both of us taking strength in our mutual friendship and our mutual disgust at the sight we had just witnessed. Holmes cleared his throat and began sorting through the young man's bookshelves, searching for Lord knows what.

I myself was too paralyzed by disgust to move. The image of the heartbroken sailor who came to us in great distress because his sister was missing was suddenly shattered and a harsher, darker image of a monster began to take shape in my mind instead. What other horrors were we to learn about our client in this room? What, if anything, did they have to do with his younger sister's mysterious disappearance? The questions rattled my mind, making it difficult to focus on my simple task of sorting through papers.

"Watson?"

Holmes's voice broke my paralysis and I looked up at him, half expecting him to be holding a severed head he had discovered hidden amongst the shelves. I was quite surprised to find him standing beside the bed, balancing an innocuous looking book in one of his long, white hands.

"What is that?" I asked him, keeping a safe distance between myself and the object he held in his hand; I had never known the horror photographs could hold and I was loathe to learn what terrible things could live between the front and back covers of the manuscript he was holding.

"_Justine ou Les Malheurs de la Vertu_," he said in perfect French. "I don't suppose," he said with an enigmatic smile playing about his lips, "that in your professor you've ever come across a physical reenactment of some of the philosophies proposed by Donatien Alphonse François de Sade, Marquis de Mazan?"

"The Marquis de Sade?"

"_Oui_ my dear Watson, _oui._"

I shook my head in the negative. "But I have heard many a graphic story about his work."

"You've never read it yourself then?"

Again I shook my head. "No, never."

"Ah." He thumbed through the text for a few moments, stopping here and there to read aloud some passages in French, and although I could not understand what he was saying I knew the words were extremely graphic when I saw the tops of his ears color considerably. "His writing," he said sardonically, "is even more melodramatic then yours."

I knew by his still trembling hands that beneath his attitude of sang-froid, a veritable avalanche of emotions was threatening to smother him, so I allowed him to make barbs at my writing if it would ease the tension I knew he was feeling.

"I can only imagine how he would write my cases for your beloved _Strand_ magazine."

"Indeed," I replied.

He continued to peruse the text until he found a passage of immense interest to him. His grey eyes scanned the words several times and his lips moved silently as though he was afraid to voice whatever was written on the page in front of him. Then, after a minute, he threw the book aside with an exclamation of extremely revulsion. "Be grateful," he said by way of explanation, "that you do not understand the French language."

"Have you learned anything?"

"A great deal, but it seems, my dear fellow, the more I discover the darker and more complex this investigation becomes. Any luck with the receipts?"

I shook my head and handed him the sheets of paper I had found. He thumbed through them quickly, and shook his head in anger. Then, his eyes locked onto a hastily written note which he removed from the pile and stared at for a long while.

"Watson, this writing, where have you seen it before?"

I stared at the paper but did not recognize it and said as much to my friend who groaned in frustration.

"Think Watson, think!"

"I cannot think because I do not know," I barked back at him.

Quickly, he pushed me aside and began carefully examining the blotter which was on our client's desk. After satisfying himself with that he removed a pad of paper and carefully looked at several sheets upon it. Then, he removed a pencil and began to very lightly color over the top sheet. When imprints started to materialize, I gasped in surprise and he yelped with glee.

"Bring one thousand pounds to—damnation I can't read ah— by Monday morning. Do not," he squinted at the paper and began rubbing the lead over the paper more quickly, carefully increasing his pressure. "Don't bring po—"

"Holmes! That's the letter Mr. Stevenson brought to you when—"

"Precisely Watson, precisely!"

"So then that must mean—"

"It certainly confirms my suspicions, but it does not answer the central questions to this problem, why would he write this and where is his sister?"

Suddenly, Holmes's eyes darted from the paper and towards the door. He grabbed the pile from me and threw it back on the desk where I had found it moments before. Then, without warning, he shoved me, quite roughly, behind the space between the wall and the headboard of the bed, before he huddled beside me and pulled me down until we were almost lying prone beneath the bed itself.

"Not a sound Watson," he whispered, "our very lives may depend upon our silence."

A moment later, I heard what his acute senses had picked up earlier, the sound of heavy boots outside the door. Silence followed and then the squeak of the door opening, more heavy boots and then the door squeaked shut, locking us inside the same room with the very man were investigating. I could sense Arthur staring about the room and as I peered from under the bed, I saw, to my horror the copy of _Justine_ Holmes had angrily flung to the floor!


End file.
